Infinite Kisses
by Kassia Lirret
Summary: Formally "Back to Black" This is a tale of love overcoming all obstacles between two men in a time where there love is outcast. John and Sherlock must fight for their love and solve the mystery of their survival. Rated M for gay sex.
1. Back to Us

Author's Note: So I wrote this at 5am, no beta. Inspired by Amy Winehouse's Back to Black which I listened to as I wrote it. I'm thinking about doing 2 more chapters, Porn with Plot, unlike this clear PWP.

Enjoy!

* * *

Back to 221B Baker St. Time elapse: approximately 26 minutes and 42 seconds. Time needed: 22 minutes and 18 seconds.

First, I will arrive at Watson's new home at exactly 8:53. Mary is already asleep. He will tell me to leave, for it is too late. I insist that it is never too late for colleagues to share a drink and some memories.

Watson will cave and allow me into his home. 7 minutes of dull pleasantries and scotch sipping before he says "So why are you really here, Holmes?"

I will do nothing but smirk. He doesn't need an answer.

"I see. And you expect to succeed with my wife upstairs?"

Again, he knows the answer.

"You're insufferable."

"Really?" I say, getting closer to Watson. He's 3 feet 9 inches away and I can smell his cologne mixed with scotch. This isn't his first drink. "Rough night?"

"How do you always know?" He puts down his drink on the glass tea tray.

I cock my head to the side. "Elementary, my dear Watson."

He places his fingers just below my pulse point, tilting my head up. "You can't deduce everything."

In just over a second, my fingers are in his hair and I'm pulling him close. Our lips meet and all the pent up dark energy just sort of oozes out into the air. I'm overwhelmed by the taste of him with the bite of alcohol. His hands have gone down my chest and have rested on my hips. When he pulls us together and our cocks meet through the thin layers of cotton in between, a low growl rumbles out of our kiss. If we hadn't been in a such a close embrace, I would have missed that delicious sound.

My fingers fist into his hair and pull his head back for a moment to suck and bite down his neck then chest. I'm on my knees and it's 9:04. It never will cease to amuse me how weak he is to my advances.

"You have to stop," he mumbles. His voice much too deep and quiet with arousal that I know his words are empty.

Ignoring him, I undo his buckle and trousers, pulling away the cursed material from my prize. Watson's insanity. I start by just sucking in the head, then let my saliva on his cock cool for a moment in open air. John tries to place his hands on my head, but I block it easily with one arm. His glare bores into my forehead, but I pay no heed. This time I swallow him whole and hold it.

"Fucking Christ, Sherlock." he curses, his knees going weak. I release him and he tumbles backwards onto the sofa. I get up and remove my own trousers before straddling his waist. As our cocks grind together, skin to skin, it's 9:06, and I can almost feel his need mixed with my own. How long have we waited for this, Watson?

"I've missed you," the words seem to leave my lips without my permission, but I cannot regret them, even as I feel the tip of his cock tease my arse. Delicious friction taking it's toll on our control. Thrusts become more random and when I intentionally angle my body precisely four inches out from him, his prick penetrates me. Time seems to freeze though the clock on the wall reads 9:09.

"Oh fuck," he breathes, his head falling back. I can't resist that gorgeous neck. As I fall back down onto him, impaling myself, I leave soft kisses to his skin. I am overcome with an overwhelming need to mark him, make him mine. It almost breaks me, knowing that I cannot. I grip his hair instead. I want him to feel some of my own pain. I want to claw his back and bite his neck and chest. I want to do so many things. I want to tie him up and have my wicked way with him for hours on every inch of our home. Instead, I'll fuck him on _their_ love seat in a way that she never can and make him come harder than she ever could.

"Your eyes are black," he whispers, his fingers brushing hair out of my face. His eyes are silver rings around black pupils, dilated with lust.

There are no more words. Our pace has to be hard and fast. I start riding him, using his hair as leverage. He cries out, but doesn't resist. He's pounding into each of my own thrusts in perfect synch, just as always. As he hits that spot inside me over and over again, I know that at 9:16, there isn't much time left.

"Sooo close," I moan against his ear. He responds with his own moan that rips through his chest. His fingers are digging into my hips and his teeth are sinking into my flesh as he comes hard inside me. It's the bite and pain of knowing he can do whatever he likes with me, never having to be afraid of marks, that sends me spiraling into my own black abyss of climax.

When I open my eyes again, his silver ones lock onto me, hook me to earth. It's 9:18 and 22 minutes and 18 seconds have past.

Slowly, he pulls out of me, and again words pool out too, "Stay with me." I say.

"Sherlock-"

"No. You don't have to say anything." I make sure to get our come on the chair.

It's 9:22, 26 minutes and 42 seconds have passed. He's given me a goodbye kiss. He promises to visit soon.

The truth is he'll go back to her and I'll go back to black.

Every fantasy ends that way. I'm back at Baker Street. John is in his room down the hall. His wedding is next Sunday. For every night since he's announced his engagement, I try to invent a scenario where he will choose me over her, but it doesn't exist. I just have to enjoy what he gives.

A knock on the bedroom door. "Holmes, are you still awake?"


	2. I Never Knew

Author's Note: Still no reviews? I know it's ruddy brilliant. Anyways, enjoy chapter 2 inspired by Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop by Landon Pigg. This one is just some fluffy fluff that I thoroughly enjoyed writing. Still no beta, by the way.

Enjoy!~

* * *

"Yes, Watson." I heard him say through the door. I turn the handle and walk inside.

"I know it's terribly late, but I can't sleep." I say. When I look up at him, all thoughts sort of fall apart. He's clad in nothing but his robe, lounging in his chair with his pipe by the window. There's barely any light at all, aside the cool dawn that's creeping up on his skin.

He's beautiful. There's never been any denying that. It's nights like this with his hair tousled and eyes black when I want nothing more than to forget the world and be with him.

"What is it, John?" He doesn't look at me. His eyes are fixed on the streets below.

"I think that possibly... maybe I've fallen for you."

He does look at me then. I can't read his expression. "I beg your pardon."

"You heard me." I can't stand to look at him any more. "I can't sleep. Despite how insane you make me feel and how much I'd like to punch that pretty little face of yours half the time... the other half... I just want to..."

"Kiss me." he says. He hasn't moved, but the sun has slowly risen over the building tops into our home. It's like everything's transformed in a moment. And we can never go back.

"I shouldn't. Holmes, what I feel is wrong... I can't help it."

He moves towards me, the robe fluttering with each movement, exposing skin. He's just inches away. He smells like tobacco. His hand cups my face. "Stop thinking." he says, leaning in closer and closer until our lips just brush.

"I can't." I say, "I'm trying."

"If I can't have you, I'd rather be alone. You can trust me, John. Just like always."

I kiss him then. His scruff against my chin and his lips against mine and his hands on my face, the smell of tobacco and coffee taste on my tongue, the way his breath exhales from his nose onto my skin, my hands on his shoulders, pushing the robe away... I lock each piece of the moment away to remember always.

His hands push away my night shirt and our hands explore our skin. We're perfectly in synch, reading each other like our favourite novels, savouring each movement and touch and breath and moan.

"Please," he says as I break away.

"I never knew just what it was about you that I loved so much. It's like you're my other half. I didn't know anyone could know me like you do." I'm not certain if I'm rambling nonsense, romantic bullshit, or a combination of the both.

"I love you," he says, his head rested on my chest, his breath tickling my neck.

"Lets stay in bed all day."

"Don't you have church?"

I smile, and it feels most genuine and happy-two things I rarely feel. "You're insufferable."

We're on his bed now. Sunlight on our bare skin. Skin on skin. Kiss after kiss. I'm losing track of all time. I'm lost in this fantasy of him with no shields. It's just John and Sherlock. There's no wedding or world, just us sharing lazy kisses as dawn breaks this Sunday morning. And it's everything I ever wanted.

He touching me and stroking me. He's not rough or fast. I just keep caressing each new inch of skin that I'd never been able to before. We let out airy sighs and light moans, kisses fill the silence.

"I want you," I say in between kisses. Everything is getting too hot and there's not enough friction... or passion. "I want more."

"I'm yours," he replies, flipping our bodies. "what would you have me do?"

"I don't know... I don't know how to do this."

It's when the truth comes out my fantasy shatters. I can never move forward because I've never tried. I've never been with a man before and I don't know how, but all of me wants to be with him aside this one terrified piece that doesn't want to be hurt or outcast. I just want some normalcy in my life. Yet it's impossible because I am so deeply in love with the strangest, most brilliant man I have ever met. I want to know how to be with him. So, I gather all my courage and knock on his door.

"Holmes," I say, half-hoping he's asleep, "Are you awake?"


	3. Motivation

Author's Note: Hey guys. Finally a few reviews. C: Thank you so much. Now it's time for the real deal, no more bullshitting you guys... sort of. Any ways, here's some porn with plot. Inspired by Motivation by Kelly Rowland ft. Lil' Wayne. Still no beta.

Enjoy!~

* * *

They wanted each other. That much was clear. As the door swung open revealing a poorly clad Holmes to Watson, all the tension hung in the air between them, nearly tangible.

"What is it?" Holmes asks.

John stares for a long moment. "I can't sleep."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not for anything to eat."

They don't say anything. Watson invites himself in and sits in Holmes' chair. "What if I left Mary?"

"I beg your pardon."

"I was thinking. I don't really love her. Just the idea of her. A beautiful woman, a nice home, no insane roommate or crazy adventures. Just peace and quiet. Maybe a dog. Or children."

"You hate children."

"_You_ hate children." Watson corrects. "But I really don't want any of those things... not any more."

"What do you want?" Holmes couldn't keep the question from tumbling out of his mouth.

When Watson thinks about it, the answer is simple. He wants Holmes. Nothing more or less. But he cannot find the same courage from knocking on the door.

"Something I shouldn't."

"By who's words?"

"My words," Watson mutters, "I should be condemned for my thoughts and secret desires."

"So should every man." Holmes counters. "What makes you think your desires are wrong?"

"Common sense."

"Not every one has that. You most certainly do. I don't think what you want is as bad as you think. Come now, you can trust me. Just like always." Watson almost vomits from Sherlock's word spew.

"Then you clearly don't know me."

"What do you want from me? At the very least you can answer that." Holmes is about to crack from the suspense. He can almost taste his victory. He knows Watson wants him. He can read it on his finger tips that are trembling and the way his mouth is watering and how dark his eyes have become. No one knows John the way Sherlock does.

"I can't answer that."

"You can, but you're too afraid."

"You!" Watson shouts, his whole body shaking as if he had been fighting the word for a very long time. "I want you. Whatever that means. I dream about... you and that's why I can't sleep. I shouldn't want what my dreams tell me... what my body tells me."

Holmes is very close now, leaning on the arm of the chair. His hand reaches down and takes Watson's hand in his.

"How about this? Is that alright?"

"What are you doing?"

"Holding your hand."

"Yes, I see that, but why?"

Sherlock truly smiles then. "Because you want me but aren't ready for me. It's quite adorable actually. Your innocence."

"Innocence?"

"Yes. I think you're just afraid because you have no idea how to do this."

Watson closes his eyes and inhales deeply, thoroughly shaken by how accurate Holmes is. No one knows him better than Sherlock.

"You are far too intelligent for your own good."

"So I am correct." Holmes traces his fingers up John's arm to his cheek, caressing the skin. He leans forward to whisper in his ear. "I can teach you."

Watson keeps his eyes shut tightly, but even behind his eyelids, he sees Sherlock, naked, pinning him to a bed and doing just that.

"Why is this so difficult?" he finally whispers back.

"Stop thinking," Holmes commands.

"I can't," John replies. "I'm trying."

The tension could be cut with a knife. Holmes is so close, he can feel John's breathing, can watch the rise and fall of his chest, can see the goosebumps on the back of his neck, can smell the faint hint of aftershave on his cheek. Watson can feel Sherlock's breathing, can faintly feel his pulse pounding in his throat against the back of his neck, can smell coffee.

Then it snapped.

John turns his head and Sherlock pulls him roughly into a kiss. Their lips meet in an explosion of energy. John lets out a deep moan because he didn't even realize how much he wanted this. Sherlock straddles John's lap, his hands feeling any skin he can find. John doesn't know what to do with his hands except tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

"Have you ever kissed a man before?" Sherlock asks, his lips trailing down Watson's jaw and neck. His teeth nibble on a spot below his ear.

"Just you," John replies breathlessly.

Sherlock goes down John's body, kissing every inch of skin he can. He's down on his knees now, he pulls down John's trousers in one move. "You don't have to hide from me."

Watson really wants to close his eyes, but Holmes' black eyes have locked his and he's leaning forward to kiss the tip of his cock. Just that touch breaks his stare and John throws his head back against the chair.

"I'm going to show you something. Try not to scream, darling." At that, Sherlock swallows John whole. Despite his advisement, John does scream a little, though it's more of a growl just ripping for his chest. His hands are gripping Sherlock's hair for dear life as his head starts to bob. It's a sensation he's never felt before and it sends electric shocks through his entire body. Sherlock moans around John's cock, loving the feeling and seeing how far gone Watson already is. He can taste it.

Success.

"Ooooh fuck." Watson breathes, trying to gain some control of his body, but he knows he's at the mercy of the man between his legs.

_So innocent._ Sherlock thinks, swirling his tongue around the tip. _If only you knew what I'm capable of._

"I don't think..." John manages to say, "I'm not going to go much longer." Every movement Sherlock does sends his mind spiraling and John knows it's only a matter of time before he just comes.

Holmes stops all movement and releases Watson's cock for a moment. "Fuck my mouth," he says as though it's the most ordinary thing in the world.

"I beg your pardon."

Sherlock moves up John's body until they're face to face. He kisses him slowly and John can taste himself on his lips. "You have so much to learn, my dear Watson." Sherlock lowers himself on John's lap, their cocks, meet, skin to skin.

Every muscle in John's body tightens and releases over and over again as he comes harder than he's ever in his entire life. His fingers are gripping Sherlock's hips so tightly, he's sure to bruise. Sherlock leaves his marks too as he bites hard on Watson's neck, stiffling his own scream. Watching John come so undone brought him over the edge suddenly, and his body is shaking.

"Why have we waited so long for this?" Watson asks, his chest heaving.

"We just needed some motivation."


	4. Bones and Skin

Author's Note: Hey what's up? Thank for reading, by the way. You should definitely leave a review. c: This one's inspired by Bones and Skin... by Micah? I think. Anyways, will John/Sherlock find happiness? Or will John take the easy way out? Will you find out this chapter? Stick around and READ.

Still no beta by the way.

Enjoy!

(And of course there's smut.)

* * *

"Am I dreaming?" he asks.

The rain pours outside. Thousands of droplets beat against the window. London looks even more melancholy under the dark grey clouds.

Everything's grey. So are his eyes. No longer silver.

"Yes, Watson." I answer.

"Do I have to wake up?" he asks.

"Only if you want to. But stay with me a little while." I don't tell him that it'll destroy if he does. I place my hand over his heart. "Lie with me, John."

I pull him to my bed, holding his hand again. I kiss him again and again, falling onto the duvet. He's naked and ontop of me. His scruff prickles against my neck. His cock falls against my thigh. There's infinite kisses as I roll us over.

Thunder tolls. I rut against him just a little and he gasps. Just a little.

It's hard to believe he's just bones and skin and flesh. That I am tethered to something death can touch. Each little gasp reminds me of our mortality. At any moment he could be gone. I could be gone.

I'm kissing his neck now, right below his ear where it drives him insane. He's whispering _I love you_ and I wonder if he knows. Does he? Or will he go back to her tomorrow?

I've begun rolling my hips, and the friction helps stop my thoughts just for a moment. He's moaning my name. _Sherlock._ Never has my name sounded so sexy. The way those pink lips form the word. The way his voice is already so far gone, gruff with lust.

I'm in awe of him. Every detail. The way his eyes have melted back, molten and glittering onyx diamonds. The way his forehead is peppered with sweat. The way his mouth seems to have lost it's filter. The way his chest heaves each breath. The way he arches his back with each thrust.

"Fuck," he breathes, "More."

"How much more?"

"Everything."

I know he doesn't know what that means, but I want to.

There's oil in my night side table. I wonder if it terrifies him or if he's still clueless. His face is impassive, waiting. I pour some on my fingers and reach behind myself.

"I want to watch." he says. "I want to know what we're going to do."

I get in a better position for him to see, but I can't form the words to tell him. I can't speak. I can't explain what's about to happen. Just "fuck" as I insert a finger into myself.

I can feel his eyes boring into me. "I won't fit," he says and I actually laugh. But I won't explain why. He needs no explanation. Demonstrations are easier.

I add another finger, then another. Occasionally I look back to catch his expression. Watching is driving him insane. I reach back to grab his cock. I sit down and let him slip inside me inch by inch. Every feeling driving me insane. He's rolling his hips so slowly and I wonder if he's trying not to thrust up.

"How does it feel?" I whisper.

"Fantastical," he sighs, his hands grabbing my hips.

It's slow and bittersweet. I want to savour it all, to never stop riding him, or hearing him let go, or feeling his cock, or fucking. More than anything I want these moments to last. To mean something.

"I love you," I say. Nothing else can describe how he makes me feel. I don't know if it's enough. I can't promise him all those things that Mary can. All I can give him is what he sees and feels. It may never be enough. My success is cursed.

I need to face him, be near him. I reposition myself and kiss him, just rolling my hips against his. Slow friction keeping us going for what feels like hours and I just stare at him. He's so lost. "Come back to me, John. Come for me."

He does. I watch each moment as he comes undone. First his eyes lock mine, then his lips groan my name jumbled with _love_ and _fuck_. Then his finger nails scrape down my back and his body seems to fold in on itself. The intensity of his orgasm brings my own. The passion sticks in the room as wave after wave of pleasure wracks through bones and skin. I can't tell where one of us ends and the other begins.

"I love you," he breathes. He has me in his arms and I have him in mine.

"Don't forget that." He doesn't know, but I'm begging. I will remember every moment of him. I'll play it over and over in my mind. He doesn't know, but I've been waiting for him for a thousand years.


	5. Darling, Don't Be Afraid

Author's Note: This one's shorter. Sorry. Just how it is. Inspired by A Thousand Years by some chick. I was listening to a cover, so whatever.

Still no beta.

ENJOY!~

(No smut. Just some pure fluff... don't you dare skip this chapter. The cuteness will kill you.)

* * *

I know I'm dreaming. I can see it in his eyes. I've never seen them so bright. He looks so incandescently happy. I wonder if he's loved me all this time.

"I have," because of course he read my thoughts. "I've loved you for a thousand years."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I can never lose you, Watson. No matter what that means. I refuse to be parted with you." He takes my hand and kisses my palm. I've never been treated with such gentleness. As though the slightest touch will break me.

I treat him the same, taking his hand and kissing each finger tip. "When did you know?"

"When I first met you. I knew that I had found a match in wit, brilliance, and looks." He looks away then, down at my hand. "I fall in love with you all over again every day."

"Why do you love me today?"

He smiles, and it lights the dim room like sunlight. "Because you are brave and beautiful. Because you've got bed head. Because you're holding my hand. Because you're holding me. Because of your eyes. Your skin. Your heart. There are a thousand reasons to love you every day."

_How could I have been so blind? _

"You're only human, John." he says.

I feel it then. An over-whelming emotion of love and fear. "I'm so terrified." I tell him.

"I as well." he replies. "But I'd suffer anything to be with you. Darling, don't be afraid."

"I don't know what to do."

"I can't make that decision for you." he says. "You have to do that alone."

"Just tell me what you want."

"I want to be with you for as long as I live. Like this... but I will have you any way I can."

"Tell me your dreams."

He sighs. He kisses each of my knuckles, slowly, tenderly. "I shouldn't tell you."

"Please. I need to know."

He stares at me. He does that often, drinking me in like a man in the desert. "I dream about being with you. Of holding you every night as I fall asleep to waking up with you in my arms still. Of sharing infinite kisses and never being afraid. Of knowing you're mine and that I can... mark you with my teeth and nails in moments of passion. Of loving you. I dream of us being together as partners in more than just our jobs, but in life."

His speech has my mind reeling. Every word makes me want him more, love him more. I want it all too. It would be so easy. We could never tell a soul.

"I don't want to hide this." I say and I know it's foolish. We'd be killed if we went public with our relationship.

"This?" he asks.

"Us."

I've made my choice.

"You pick me?"

"Yes."

"Don't joke with me, Watson."

"I'm serious."

"I'll never forgive you if you're lying."

I know it's true. If he believes that he can have his dreams and I take them away, he would never look at me again. Suddenly all my doubt goes away somehow.

"You have me." Though being and having are thoroughly inaccurate words in the twisted plots of desire. They are one in the same. We are one in the same. Just opposite banks of a river, passing back and forth from one another infinitely. I have been his for a very long time.

"I've been dying waiting for you to say that." He kisses me so tenderly. I want to cry into his kiss and tell him I'm sorry for not seeing this before. For putting us through all this. Instead, I try to tell him with my lips, to say _I'm sorry_ through a kiss. I wonder if kisses have their own language and I just simply haven't learned it, or if his lips speak a language of their own.

I rest my face in the crook of his neck, breaking away. "I'm so tired."

"Dream of me, John."

I do. I dream of us living in a world where we don't have to hide. Where we're safe for a thousand years.


	6. Lights Will Guide You Home

Author's Note: Hey! Sorry it took me a bit to write this chapter. I just wasn't sure where I was going with the story. So, I made the logical decision and here's chapter 6 inspired by Fix You by Coldplay.

Enjoy!~

* * *

Watson fidgeted with the table cloth. The restaurant was one of his favourites and he had many memories throughout the room. They didn't comfort him tonight.

He knew that in just a few minutes, Mary would arrive. And he would tell her to cancel the wedding. He didn't want to lie, so he decided he wouldn't give a reason. Perhaps she would read his silence.

His heart was pounding and he could feel his pulse in his ears. He wiped his brow and inhaled deeply. When he closed his eyes, he thought of earlier that day, waking up next to Holmes in the afternoon. His hair a wild mess and his lips chapped and his scruff all making a beautiful picture. John focused on that image, of waking up next to Sherlock for the rest of his life.

He saw her walking across the dining room towards him. She was stunning in a lovely red dress and a string of pearls around her neck. He stood and pulled out her chair. She kissed his cheek in greeting.

"Hello, John," she breathed into his ear before sitting down. "I've missed you."

"You saw me yesterday."

"But you were so distant. I know the wedding planning is boring. It's nice to have time to ourselves, finally."

John shuts his eyes again. Sherlock is still there, awake now, his eyes glittering. He mouths the word _courage_.

"Mary-"

"I think about you all the time." she said, placing her hand on his forearm. "I can't wait to have you to myself."

"There's something-"

"Do you think about me too?" she moved her hands up his chest to his face. John backed away.

"I can't do this any more, Mary." He doesn't look at her then.

"I beg your pardon."

"I can't marry you."

"Yes, you can."

"No." His eyes locked hers. A tense silence fell between them.

"Why?"

His heart nearly breaks because he can't tell her. He holds her gaze, wondering if she can see the truth in his eyes. He wants her to see, to expose him. She doesn't.

"Why, John? Is there someone else?"

He can't watch her fall apart. Her eyes had welled with tears and her cheeks had flushed with what he suspected was rage.

"I thought you loved me."

The words shattered on his skin like shards of glass.

"I do love you. It's not enough."

"Try harder."

"I have tried so hard that I've nearly broken myself." He stood. "I can't any more. I'm sorry."

John started to leave. In the back of his mind, he heard her say something. Then glass shatters. He guessed her rage had begun.

_Why did you lead me on? We were to be married this Sunday. Why did you wait until now? Am I not good enough? Did you even love me? Do you like my tears? You broke my heart._

Watson heard Mary's unspoken words as he walked back to Baker St. He had hoped the walk would clear his head, but all he could think about was what he had thrown away. A lovely wife, a family perhaps, all sense of normality, a beautiful home, safety. To gain the love of his life.

_Love is expensive, _he thought. _Is it worth the price?_

From outside he can make out Sherlock's window. Through it he can see the man in question playing his violin by the fire. John knew the answer then. _Yes._ Holmes would always be worth it.

John went inside and reached the top of the stairs. Before he can knock, Sherlock's door swings open and he's dragged inside. Sherlock's begun kissing him, pinning him against the door, their bodies flush together.

He could tell Sherlock knew. He always knew. As though his mind were an open book.

The kiss felt wet and he realised he's crying. Sherlock brushed away his tears with his fingers, sucking on his bottom lip. John grabbed Sherlock's hips, pulling their groins together. He wanted it all hot and fast, mind-blowing so he can't think. But Sherlock continued in slowly lazy circles with his tongue and hips. John tried to speed things up, but Holmes broke away.

"You need to feel." he said and Watson is just confused. He is feeling. "Even your pain. Let me help you."

"I just want to feel you." John replied.

"You're so broken, John." Sherlock touched John's face, tracing soothing circles into his temples. "Let yourself go. I'll take care of you."

They kissed again and John could feel himself breaking down bit by bit. He felt pain and fear and love and heartbreak and hope and joy and arousal. All the emotions crashed down on him and he gasped for air.

Sherlock moved his lips down to John's neck and chest, kissing right over his heart. John sobbed and held onto Holmes tightly.

"It's all too much," he managed to whisper.

"Just feel. It'll be all right." Sherlock gave Watson a comforting kiss. "I will try to fix you."

"How?"

"By loving you."

Tears streamed down John's face. He had lost something he could never replace. But he didn't want to. What Holmes was giving to him was far more precious than anything he could have hoped for. And though he was broken, he knew that Sherlock knew how to fix him.


	7. The Things We Do

Author's Note: Sorry this update took forever. I was facing a block, but I'm better now. This chapter was inspired by Day Old Hate by City and Colour.

Thank you to all the reviews! They make writing worthwhile.

Enjoy!

* * *

"You have to eat," I say. It's Saturday afternoon and Watson has just woken up.

"Coffee," John manages to mutter, turning his face back into my pillow. He's taken my room, bed, and body hostage since the night he told Mary to fuck off. I'm sure he said it much more politely.

"Almost, but no. Food." I try to get up, but Watson pulls me back down.

"Stay," he says and I am powerless to his plea. I melt into his arms. After all, how bad is it to be his hostage? I'm actually quite enjoying it.

"You really should eat." I do say finally.

"You go days without food regularly."

He's right. "And what do you always make me do when you find out?"

John opens one eye and I know I've got him.

"Eat," he says, "I don't want to move or bathe or dress and I don't want you to go."

"Well then, we have a mystery, my dear Watson." I break free of his embrace easily and stand. I put on my robe as well and grab my pipe.

"Oh, god." I hear him say. He doesn't see my smile.

"Lets deduce this simply, shall we?" At that precise moment, there is a knock on the door, as I expected. Upon opening, Mrs Hudson allows herself in with a tray of tea and biscuits. "Elementary, my dear Watson."

"You can hardly take credit-" John tries to argue.

"On the contrary. I predicted your condition yesterday evening after you left. So, I made arrangements with Mrs. Hudson for meals to be brought to the room today and tomorrow. You already missed breakfast, as you can see." I gesture to an uneaten tray in the corner. I then take the fresh tray from Mrs. Hudson and dismiss her.

"Are you mad?" He asks me indignantly. "How must it look for me to be naked in your bed and you to be in nothing but a dressing gown? Holmes-"

"Don't worry so much. Money can buy nearly anything. Including silence."

I can see my words sink in his mind.

"You paid off our maid so she wouldn't tell the police that we're sodomites."

"When you say it like that-"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're fucking mad, I swear."

"But brilliant."

He shoots me a glare that almost instantly softens.

"How on earth do you know me so well?" He asks after a moment.

"I've watched your mind at work for a long time." I say. "You fascinate me. After all these years, I just know you."

He continues his stare for what feels like weeks while he eats. I give him space, sitting in my chair by the window with my pipe and a cup of tea. But I am so drawn to him. Our eyes meet every 5 or 6 seconds. We have no words, but our eyes say so much.

In this moment, I paint a picture of him. Mentally of course. How is hair is tousled. How his arms flex with each movement and his muscles stand out of his chest. How his scars light up his skin with an eerie glow. I lock it away for future reference.

He's so unkempt and lost. Wild.

I will always be drawn to his eyes. They constantly change colour depending on how he feels. Today they are dark and stormy like thunder clouds with bolts of white lightening. Mesmerizing.

I have never seen him quite like this. I cannot read his thoughts the way I do, as if the clouds shield his mind. After all, the eyes are the windows to the mind, heart, and soul.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says, breaking our stare.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken." His tears fall like rain. His face is emotionless aside those drops which fall one after another down his face.

I go to him and pull him into my arms. He doesn't speak. I don't think he can.

"What you gave up was very special to you." I say.

_I ruined it._

"_You _are special to me," he whispers, "I may not look it, but I love being here with you. I'm just feeling a lot of things." His tears are more thunderous than before. "I broke her heart."

"You broke yourself too." I say. "Calling off your future... for me. It broke you."

"I'm not broken!" He frees himself from my arms and begins pacing the room. "I'm scared shitless. I'm confused. I'm hopelessly in love with you. And if anyone finds out we'll both die."

"There's always chance of imprison-" He kisses me and we fall back into bed.

"Just shut up, Holmes." He murmurs into my lips. I do shut up after that.

I kiss him again and again. He sighs deeply and holds my face in his hands. There's no place I'd rather be in this entire world than underneath Watson. When my lips are on his, the world is invisible. My mind is off. There are no mysteries except the language of his lips, the way we say _I love you_ without words.

"Take me," he whispers and I don't believe I heard him correctly. "I want you inside me." He clarifies, knowing and reading_ my_ mind.

It's as if I've been electrocuted. Warm arousal ignites my veins in waves as his words roll over me. The shock reverberates through me.

"Don't ask me if I'm sure." He looks at me then, his eyes tell me _Because_ _I am._ Then his lips repeat the message on my jaw, then my neck. He's sucking on the hollow of my neck and collar, sure to leave a mark. I've never been more turned on in my life.

An imaginary switch is flipped in my mind.

My hands roam his body, feeling every inch of skin. I rake my fingers down his back when he bites down suddenly. A low moan leaves me as my hands find his perfect arse, the skin so soft and plump. I pull our groins together, the thin fabric of my robe hardly hindering the sensation.

"Don't tease me," he begs and that alone makes me impossibly harder. "I need you."

I leave him for only a moment to grab the oil on the night stand. I pour some on my fingers.

"This will hurt, darling." I tell him before slowly teasing his entrance.

"Please," and he sounds already in utter agony. I push one finger inside and his response is instant. His fingers grips my shoulders so tightly I'm certain there will be bruises. Oh, how he _loves_ to mark me. I wait a moment before I move the appendage out then back in. Stretching him is so slow. I want to be sure he isn't in any sort of discomfort, but I know he will hurt.

I have three fingers in him now and he's rutting back against them, his lips parted and his breathing desperately uneven. "Now," he says breathlessly. He helps me take off my robe and discard it to the floor. It's his hand that pours the oil onto my erection and strokes me once, my breath hitching at the much needed friction.

He pulls me on top of him, our bodies flush together. He wraps his long legs around my hips pulling our groins together. We moan simultaneously. _I need this so badly._ I hear his words through the kiss he gives me. He sucks in my bottom lip and twists his fingers in my hair. _Now._ The word rings through the air, floating around us.

I position myself and inhale sharply before slowly pressing in. His breath whooshes out in a low "Oh." I feel like I'm moving in slow motion, trying to be as careful as possible not to hurt him more than necessary.

When I'm in all the way, so very deep inside him, I let out that breath. "Oh, John._"_

We stay like that forever. Or what feels like it. We share kiss after kiss, accepting that we can never go back now. This new connection has changed everything.

His tension slowly subsides and I feel his relaxation flow through his body to mine. We are one. We move as one, our hips rocking together. Everything is so slow, soft, sweet. This means something more than what it is. We truly are making love.

So many infinite kisses. _I love you. Harder. Faster. Slower. There. There. There._

Our thrusts pick up and slow down and I know I'm hitting that sweet spot inside of him. His head throws back in pure ecstasy and my name falls from his lips over and over.

"Sherlock."

My head is spinning, dizzy from pleasure. He's so tight and warm and inviting, each thrust matched and each moan echoed. Neither of us want this to end, but already I feel that warm tightness in my stomach and he's clenching around me sporadically. We're so close.

Our pace builds and maybe I imagine it, but I swear I hear thunder. Each thrust brings us closer and heats our skin. I reach down between us and grasp his leaking cock. He gasps and moans, his body already shuddering from the pleasure.

"Come with me," I manage to whisper because I'm almost there and I need him to be with me.

We kiss for an eternity and everything slows again. _Now._


	8. Filthy Animals

A/N: Hey! Sorry for taking so long to update! I'm in the process of moving across the country for school. Anyways, this was originally inspired by Animal by... I don't know. I only listen to the Glee cover.

This chapter is just pure smut... without the _satisfaction._ c;

Enjoy!

* * *

"Can we please try to talk without you trying to screw me senseless?"

Holmes is naked. In his bed, his hair is sex-tousled and his lips are kiss swollen. Both sides of his neck have deep purple bruises. So does his left nipple. I don't remember doing _that_.

We have been so vulgar. Truthfully, all I want to do _is_ screw his brains out. Even now, with his pipe being sucked in by those marvelous lips makes me just a little hard.

"I have suppressed my lust for you for too long. It's _hard_ to think about much else."

His breath hitches. "Are you thinking about it now?"

I laugh without humour. Then I look at him seriously. "Are you sure you want that answer? I thought you wanted to talk?"

Suddenly he's kissing me. "I can't walk with you looking at me like that." We kiss for a very long time, but he breaks it off far too soon for my liking. "Now behave yourself," he commands before getting up, still naked, and sitting in his chair.

"At least put on your robe," I request. He smirks.

"I'd rather not, actually. You'll just have to find some self-control while we speak."

"I'd rather not, actually." I echo, sauntering towards him, crawling on the floor, hands going up his thighs, fingers kneading the flesh by his hips. "I'd rather suck on your cock."

The words are _so_ vulgar and they make his eyes roll to back of his head. They also make him hard.

"Do you want me to?" I ask before sucking on the skin on his hip bone, hoping to leave a mark. God, I do love marking him.

He moans then, his fingers gripping my short hair, pushing me lower.

"Answer me, Holmes."

"Yes," he whispers.

"Don't you want to talk?" I kiss his cock.

"Fuck no," he cursed. I acquiesce.

I had never sucked a man's cock. It felt strange, but I knew from Holmes what to do to drive him mad. I suck the tip and swirl my tongue around the head. I swallow as much as I can without gagging-how did he take it all-and touch what I cannot. He makes a strangled noise when I lap at the slit, getting the few drops of come on my tongue. He tastes delicious.

"Oh, John," he moans as I find my rhythm, sucking and bobbing. I want him to scream. So, I move one hand to secure his hips against the chair and the other… I trail a single finger across his tiny entrance.

No scream, but a long, low moan that goes straight to my cock. A sudden idea comes to mind, and it's so dirty I blush. He's too far gone to notice.

I let his cock slip from my mouth, but continue stroking. I make my way up his body and whisper "Get on the bed."

He just moans again, louder now, rocking his hips into my hand. I squeeze the base of his cock a bit roughly and he gasps. "Get. On. The bed." I hiss, dominance coursing through my veins. He obeys and moves to the bed in a drunken like stupor.

"All fours," I command, standing at the foot of the bed. Again, he obeys, and I wonder if this turns him on as much as it does to me.

That simply _devilish_ thought hits me again and I can't resist. I crawl onto the bed, spread his arse, and lick his arsehole.

He screams. Finally.

I don't repeat the action, but instead flip him onto his back. He pulls me down roughly, kissing me hard. Our bodies press together and the sudden friction takes my breath away.

"Oh, Sherlock," I moan and all my dominance melts away.

I have nothing to say. I just want to live. I already chose him. Why do we need words when my touches, my kisses, tell him all my thoughts? I'm telling him all my secrets and worries with each kiss. He listens. Our bodies are still pressed together, but our passion has slowed to a dull roar. Our lips move languidly against each other. Our arms and legs twine together.

When I'm done, he kisses me deeply, his tongue caressing my own. I can taste his love that he conveys through the kiss. It tastes like roses, sweet and sharp.

Without warning, he rolls our bodies. He straddles me and rolls his hips, breaking out kiss to bite my neck. My hands seem to move on their own, grabbing his fantastic arse and pulling our groins together roughly. His hands hold my chest and his thumbs rubs over my nipples lightly at first. The sensation overwhelms me and I arch my back into him, moaning his name loudly.

It's a game now. Who can drive the other more insane? I thought I had already won, but I hadn't the slightest clue how dirty he could play.

His lips drag up my neck and suck in my earlobe. He then huskily whispers, "I want to tie you up and have my way with you. Would you let me that pleasure?"

I can hardly respond to that, though I know I must. The thought of being helpless to Holmes turns me on more than I dare to admit. Though I don't deny it. Just his words have chilled me with anticipation.

"Yes," I whisper.


	9. Love Ain't Easy

A/N: Alright. So, I have had immense pleasure whilst writing this story, but the conflict has been over for a couple of chapters now. I've got to fuck shit up. They can no longer fuck with any consequences. What kind of boring ass story would that be?

I promise I'll go back and finish that sexy scene in chapter 10, but this chapter goes to Ms Irene Adler.

Before I start, there's something you must know about Adler. According to A. Conan Doyle, she's the female equivalent of Sherlock. So, I believe her powers of deduction are just as good.

Keep that in mind and enjoy! ~

* * *

No one calls on Irene Adler. Even letters cannot find her unless they are assignments from Moriarty. But today, in her flat in Paris, the doorbell rings.

Irene wasn't sure if she should answer, but upon investigation, she saw that her visitor appeared quite harmless. Even so, the small gun in her garter gave her reassurance.

She wrapped her silk robe around herself and discarded her cigarette. As she opened the door, she saw her visitor in full. A woman no older than thirty with light red hair, fair skin, and hazel eyes in a deep blue coat stood on her doorstep.

"You don't know me, Miss Adler," she spoke, "But I am Mary Morstan. And I need your help."

"You're English," Irene said, surprised, "How did you find me?"

A mischievous smile played on Mary's lips. "A mutual friend." Mary handed Irene an envelope bearing the seal of Moriarty. "He said aside Sherlock Holmes; you are the only one who can solve my mystery."

"And what is that?" Irene asked.

"Who stole my husband from me?"

There is a long pause before Irene collects herself. "Would you like some tea?"

"Please," Mary replied.

Once they were settled in the parlour, Irene began her investigation.

"Please excuse my state of undress, but I'd like to begin this as soon as possible."

"Of course," Mary mumbled, a bit flush, "What do you need to know?"

"When did he leave you?"

"Last Thursday."

"Did he say why?"

"No. Just that he couldn't do this anymore."

Irene sighed. "Then how do you know there was someone else."

"He didn't answer me when I asked. He just looked guilty."

"That's hardly reason-"

"He loved me! I know it. Then something happened. Perhaps it wasn't someone, but if he won't tell me, I will find out by any other means. I need to know. I'll pay you any amount, but find out for me."

Irene leaned back in her chair and took a long sip of tea. "Your engagement ring."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's my price."

Mary looked down at the large diamond on her finger. In a sudden flash of anger, she tossed the ring at Irene.

"His name is John Watson."

"Oh, darling," Irene sighed, lipping the ring onto her finger. "I already knew that."

"How?"

"Did you honestly think Sherlock Holmes could afford a ring like this?"

Mary simply looked confused.

Irene waved it off. "Go back to London. I have a feeling I will solve your mystery in no time at all."

"Thank you," Mary said, getting up to leave, "May I call you Irene?"

"If you'd like," Irene smiled, "Until we meet again, Mary."

Now, Irene had already solved the mystery even before she arrived at Baker Street. The knowledge did not prepare her for what she once she entered Sherlock's sleeping quarters.

Perhaps she should have knocked.

"You've gotten yourself into quite the knot-Oh, GOD! Watson? Holmes?"

The sight of Watson tied to Sherlock's four poster bed as Holmes sat impaled on Watson's cock was nearly enough to make her faint. Instead she left the room slamming the door.

"I'll be in the drawing room!" she yelled to the door, before walking into said room. Mrs Hudson arrived a few moments later with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Thank you," Irene said, pouring herself a cup.

Mrs Hudson left without a word and Irene rolled her eyes. Even the _maid_ knew. How had Mary missed this?

After a few minutes, the two men emerged from the bedroom. Watson dressed loosely in a shirt and trousers. Sherlock clad in his robe with his pipe.

"You two are insufferable," she spat, putting down her empty cup.

"I beg your pardon, but _you_ barged in, unannounced, into _my_ bedroom," Holmes countered. "You brought this on yourself, darling."

Irene gave a sarcastic smile.

You should be nicer to the woman who holds your fate in her hands." She made sure to flash the diamond.

"How did you get that?" Watson asked.

Holmes' entire expression fell. His eyes grew dark and his jaw set. He looked enraged.

"Well, I can see Holmes has figured it out." Irene said, pouring herself another cup of tea. "Care to explain to your lover?"

Holmes' nostrils flared and his eyes shut. "Not particularly," he ground out. Irene smirked.

"Well John," she started, "It seems your ex-fiancée was not satisfied with how you left things. So she hired me to find out why. Luckily for me, all I had to do was open Sherlock's bedroom door. Not that I didn't know before then-"

"What is your price?" Holmes spat.

Irene's smug expression was poisonous. "I want you to kill Moriarty."

"That is no easy feat," Watson spoke.

"Then I will expose you."

"There must be something else!" Watson yelled.

Irene stared at him wide eyed for a moment. "There is, but I think you may find it even more impossible."

"Name it," Holmes demanded.

"Mary Morstan," she said.

"I beg your pardon?" Watson asked, appalled.

"She's very beautiful," Irene admitted, "And I have long grown tired of men."

"How on Earth are we to achieve either feat?" Watson demanded.

"That's your problem now." With that, Irene left.


	10. The Storm Grows Fierce

A/N: This chapter kicked my ass to write. The mind of Sherlock Holmes is a crazy fucking place.

Inspired by As Much As I Ever Could by City and Colour.

Enjoy~

* * *

"Holmes?"

I hear his voice, but I cannot answer. It's as though all of my joy and happiness and ecstasy have been ripped from my soul in just moments. They are replaced by anger and terror. Images of our fate-hanging by a noose, being burned alive, being shot, or being put in prison, separated forever-all flood my vision. Words are simply impossible.

"Sherlock, please," he says, his voice shaking, "Let's go back to bed." He places his hand over mine and I bolt upright.

"We have a mystery to solve, Watson." I say the words, but they seem foreign on my tongue. I'm searching for a solution, a way to live, to survive, even just to keep him alive.

"What can we do?" He sounds so hopeless.

"We can hope and try." I cannot stay angry when I know he needs me.

"Which impossible deed will we try to conquer?"

The answer is terrifying. "We must tell Mary the truth."

"You're mad!" he practically screams.

"And brilliant!" I take a moment to calm myself, but when I close my eyes, I see him dangling, lifeless. I take a deep shuddering breath. "It is our only hope of survival."

"We have to trust that she won't turn us in," he says, "This plan could utterly fail."

If only he knew.

"Do you trust me?" I ask because I need him to do this.

"With my life," he answers, "I'll do it. Alone."

"No," I say, "She'll need someone to take her anger out on." I see Mary holding a pistol at my heart and pulling the trigger. "Let that be me."

"Holmes-" I silence him with a kiss.

"No more, please." I see him holding my nearly dead body, tears streaming down his face and broken sobs leaving his lips. He screams my name and I whisper my love to him before I die. When I come back to reality, I choke back my own tears. "Tomorrow we'll face this. Let's spend our last day together in peace."

He rests his forehead against mine. "Don't talk like that."

"I'd rather not talk at all." I kiss him softly and hold his face in my hands.

I want to memorize him. Every detail. Not just in this broken moment, but every moment of every day of his life. I want him locked away safely in my memory.

"We could run away," he says, breaking our kiss suddenly.

Another vision of us being pulled apart physically by policemen, as we try to get away. I will _not_ cry. "No, Watson. I'm afraid we must face this."

I don't know if he understands my words, but he kisses me again, this time roughly. I respond with gentle caresses. There is no time for haste.

He melts into the kiss. One of his hands cradles the back of my head, massaging my neck. The other rests over my heart. I mimic his stance. In that moment, the world fades away. There is only us.

"Let's go back to bed," he says again, kissing me even softer. "Please."

I cannot resist him.

He takes my hand off his heart and twines his fingers in mine. We're moving in slow motion. I know he's pulling me to the bedroom, but I'm focusing on his hand, on every line and ridge, on the softness of his skin, on his warmth. Then, I see that warmth leaving him, his skin dead cold.

"Don't cry," he says. I'm unaware of my own tears. I can't see so I shut my eyes and the image becomes even more vivid. His lips are blue and a deep jagged scar wraps around his neck. "Lie with me, Sherlock," he whispers, pulling me back, his lips tickling my ear, "Let it be."

"I won't be parted from you," I whisper, though my mind doesn't believe the words.

"I trust you," he replies, pulling off his clothing, "Now lie with me and forget the world." With that he lay down in the centre of the bed.

I let my robe slip onto the floor. I'm still in slow motion, absorbing everything I can about him. Starting with touch.

I move my hands up his calves and thighs, the feel of his soft skin and hair prickling under my touch. "What are you doing?" he asks, his breathing uneven.

"Knowing you." I place soft kisses on his hips. I run my hands up his sides to his ribs then his stomach, moving a single finger down the patch of hair by his navel. I travel downwards, but not far enough. The feel of him is different on every inch, but I know him.

My hands travel his chest and shoulders, the skin slightly scarred and taut. His arms are firm with muscle. I love his soft hands.

"Lie on your stomach," I say and he obeys wordlessly.

His back is entirely smooth, aside a single white scar under his left shoulder blade. I kiss it lightly.

My hands roam his skin, relishing each new inch to explore. He moans under my touch. "I love you." I memorize that too. The sound of his voice. Another image, a noose around his neck, the last words before he dies proclaim his love for me.

A few of my tears fall on his skin. He sighs, turning to face me. His hands hold my face and he gives me a wistful smile. He wipes away my tears. "Let go," he says, "Just for today, be nothing but mine. I am yours." His kiss is so soft and gentle. I let myself get lost in him.

I am lost in his taste, his touch, his smell, his sound, his sight. All that he is, I am diving deeper. I want to find my way into his soul and stay there forever.

_You already have, _he speaks through the kiss.

It is my powers of deduction that risk our lives. I am so overcome with my fear of losing him, of seeing him dead because of my foolish love. I can't focus. I can't shake my terror for more than a few moments.

He kisses me deeper, pulling me underneath him, pinning me down, forcing me into the present. "You haven't lost me. I'm here."

We are infinite kisses, knitting ourselves together closer and closer with every touch.

His calm washes over me. "Let's make love for hours," he says, planting lazy kisses all over my neck and chest. "Turn off your morbid thoughts and _fuck me._"

I shudder at his words. More images of him taking the shot from Mary, of our roles reversed, of me holding his dying body, of her holding the gun at my temple, of me begging her to pull the trigger. "I can't," I whimper, "I'm trying."

Suddenly, he pins my wrists above my head. "Then I will _fuck you_."

He ties my wrists to the bed posts with the discarded rope. I am so weak to his advances and desires.

"I am going to drive you so mad with pleasure you won't be able to think," he growls in my ear, "I'm going to torture you the way you did to me this morning."

"Untie me," I beg.

"Why?" his eyes have a wicked glint.

"If this is our last time together, I want to be able to touch you. I want to make love. Not fuck."

I can tell he's considering my words.

"There will be plenty of time for that later, Holmes." His voice is thunderous and his eyes flash as lightening.

He pours oil on his fingers and inserts them in me slowly. I'm still sore from earlier and I groan.

The world shifts and our roles reverse. It is me who wants that pain, giving me a quick escape from my horrific thoughts. "I'm ready," I whisper the lie because I don't want his sweet preparation. I need the harsh burning pain.

"As you wish," he replies. Slowly, painfully slowly, he pours a bit of oil on his cock and strokes it a few times. My mouth is dry and my blood is pounding in my ears. He _is_ torturing me.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me close as he slowly presses inside me.

It's not enough. I can hear the gunshot, can smell the gun powder, can hear our screams. "John," I beg, "Please." I _need_ the pain.

He lifts me off the bed and his cock goes in deeper. I swear I can see stars. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, even deeper.

All movement stops once he's fully inside me. He places soft kisses on my neck and chest. I feel a single tear fall down my cheek.

John kisses me slowly. _Let go._

All I can see and hear is his death.

_I'm trying. _Another tear. _I need you._

"I'm right here!"

He's fucking me now and it hurts, but I don't want him to stop. I want him harder and faster. I crave the pain. Each thrust sets me on fire, but that pain is slowly fading. I'm gasping for breath as though my very life depends on it.

John slows, pressing a kiss to my temple as he unties me. Immediately I push him onto his back, going back to our position from earlier. I'm riding him, searching for that pain, but he rolls and pins me down once more. The morbid thoughts are building, bubbling to the surface of my mind. His skin is so cold.

His thrusts are too slow but so deep, shaking me to my core. He's hitting my prostrate with every thrust and I _am_ going mad with pleasure. I'm aching for release, but he's still going so slowly. I rake my finger nails down his back and bites my neck harshly, pace still too slow for release.

I let go then. All of my worries and fears float away as love and pleasure take their place. My mind stops racing and I go back to memorizing him. How his sliver-blue eyes lock mine and there's nothing to fear, because he soothes my soul from the burns of blind passion.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

We do make love for hours, or what feels like it. This slow building pleasure, like rainfall before a fierce storm, is reaching a crescendo. My heartbeat is going weak and I hope he hears my plea to not save my life.

"Bring me your love tonight," he whispers before kissing me passionately, my fingers twisting in his hair and I cry out in our kiss as wave after wave of pleasure and peaceful acceptance hits me. I see those stars again as I come harder than I thought possible. He's right here with me.

A beautiful image of us in a field on a sunny day, enjoying a picnic and infinite kisses with nothing but love takes over my thoughts. There is no more fear. I vow to make it reality.

"I love you, John Watson."


	11. Persuade Me

A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in forever. I just moved to California and life has been crazy. I finally just sat down and wrote this chapter.

Don't be mad about the ending.

ENJOY!

* * *

This is not how I pictured it.

"Do shut your mouth, John." Mary speaks her words, biting and harsh like the wind before a blizzard.

I'm searching for my words, but Sherlock finds them first.

"Irene was here, I see."

"What is that supposed to mean?" she asks in that same tone.

"Your ring is gone. It's precisely her taste."

Her eyes shoot daggers. "You disgust me."

"I can assure you, the feeling is mutual."

It's then that my words catch up.

"Stop, please." I whisper, but both hear and turn to me. "Mary, I know this is… not… normal or civilized or-"

"Right." She finishes for me.

"No, this is right." I look to him then and his lips twitch into a small, clever smile. It makes my heart flutter. "I am meant to be with Holmes. Regardless of what our society would think of it."

The silence is so loud I fear I've gone deaf.

"Please say something," I say.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks through clenched teeth.

I take a deep breath and get on my knees in front of her chair. "I want you to say nothing, to anyone, about this. I will beg if I have to. I can't lose him. Not this way. I have to fight and I need you to promise you will keep this to yourself. I know I've hurt you. I shouldn't have ever proposed."

"You knew then?" her tone is shrill and infuriated.

I try to search her eyes, trying to convey my need for compassion and mercy. "Yes."

She leans forward as if to kiss me, instead she stops so close I can feel her breath wash over my face. "You disgust me." She hisses the words slowly, deliberately, drawing out each wound as if she is brandishing a sword, each syllable a different, deep blow.

Sherlock pulls me back. "This is my fault." He says. "I should not have encouraged our attachment, but now I am afraid we are in too deep. Our only hope for survival is your mercy. If you wish to expose us, I request you tell the authorities this is my wrong-doing and your husband was not willing. Let me take the fall."

I have no idea how to react to his words. I want to scream at him to shut up because this is _our_ fault. But for once, Mary's eyes are calculating instead of accusing. It's a sliver of hope lined with fire. I can't lose him. I close my eyes, because I can't watch this unfold. I feel those few tears escape, but my whole body is rigid, unmoving.

"You love him, don't you?" she asks, quiet, curious.

I can't answer.

"More than life itself." He replies.

"You don't value _your_ life. Try again. Persuade me." She commands.

His words travel as though through water, slow and enchanting. "It's not just words. 'I love you.' Most seem to think it is. But do they think of their meaning? That's frivolous love. 'I love _you.' _ The being, not the feeling. I love the way he sleeps. How his hair sticks up on end. I love the way he speaks. How he's my only friend. I love the way his mind works, always turning with new ideas. I love the way he says good morning, and how he kisses me goodnight. He is my constant. The only being I have ever loved or trusted so fully. His genetic make-up was made me for me and mine for him. I love everything that makes him the man you see before you. _He's_ my everything. My raison d'être. And I beg of you to please… please don't take him away from me. I will give my own life to see him carry on. I will give you anything. Even the pleasure of killing me yourself, if you wish. But don't kill _him_. Please."

That last broken syllable forces my eyes open. He's on his knees in front of her like I had been and tears are streaming down his face. He truly is begging her and he's so unashamed and true. I have never known love like this.

"And you, John," she turns her attention to me, "Do you love him?"

"Yes," the answer slips so easily from my lips.

"Persuade me." She says.

I don't know where to start. I look to him and suddenly I know. I smile and he returns it.

"I've never told you this, Holmes, but I've been… writing. About you and all of your adventures. Sort of archiving them, if you will. Ever since that first fateful day when we crossed paths. From that very first moment, I have been entranced by you and your glorious mind. And now you have bewitched my heart and soul. I want to spend the rest of my life trying to understand you. I may never succeed, but I will die trying. I want to know you better than anyone else. I love you. I love every moment I get to spend with you." I look at Mary then. "So if you are to reveal us, I wish to die with him. Because there is no way I can come back from this should you take him away from me. I will take my own life if I must. I will _not_ be parted from him. So, unless you want our blood on your hands-unless you wish to kill us for loving-I implore you to please never speak of this."

Her words take an eternity.


	12. Something in the Way

A/N: Hello! You guys ready for some lady loving? Bare with me and my ability to make everyone gay. It's kinda my thing.

Inspired by Something in the Way by Nirvana.

Enjoy!

* * *

In dreams we can do anything.

I dream of us. We're in a beautiful loft in New York. There's a white glow of morning light streaming through the windows. I kiss you while you sleep. Right there where our kiss is hidden. The sun kisses your skin and you open your eyes and my heart stops. The soft city sounds purr from somewhere below us outside our walls. We're safe in here, our haven in the middle of chaos.

I can't help but smile every time our eyes meet. My heart beats so sporadically I feel like I'm dying with happiness. I don't ever want to leave you. I want to watch you fall asleep each night and wake up every morning. That moment between consciousness and unconsciousness is more beautiful than any other I could ever spend, taking my breath away.

We say "Good Morning" with a kiss. And another. And another. Each one melting like drops of wax from you to me, me to you. We say "You're beautiful" with our hands, exploring the skin we've come to know as our own, lusting for the other to moan or gasp.

When it happens-whether you or I-the kiss sets ablaze. No longer sweet words, but twisted desire turning the flavor. Suddenly it's too hot, but we hold each other tightly, regardless, reveling in the heat. We're hot and wet, twined together. Moans sing through the air because finally the heat collides.

You against me, me against you. Rutting back and forth. Pleasure rolling off like waves of smoke in the room, swirling around. Our kisses move to mark, biting and sucking down. You're the first to bring your fingers inside of me. I scream your name. _Mary._ I wonder at how our greetings always turn us on. Night or morning, we pull to the other passionately when they come.

We are so twined. One hand in hair, the other on each other, braided perfectly. Fingers pull when it feels _oh, so good_. And we beg. Unashamed and so bare, _please_ falls from my lips to yours, and yours to mine.

This is a slow building pool of pleasure, heat collecting on our hands and insides. Time slows too, and we move into one another, searching for _more_ and _faster_. Fingers curl and kisses break and shrieks of blissful agony erupt from your chest to mine, mine to yours. We're so close.

We come. Our names paint the walls with sound, echoing our praises to each other and to gods we don't believe in. A burning white light floods my eyes before I fall back from Nirvana to you, you to me. Eyes already locked, slowly focusing as we fall into our heaven. We are infinite. Unlimited.

But it's just a dream, isn't it? A fantasy of something that will never be. A time that will never happen. You will never touch me like that or love me like this.

How is it that you have bewitched me like this? How did you get under my skin and into my very heart? How did I make it stop? Every time I close my eyes I see you like this dream and you torment me like this. How can I make you stop?

Should I talk to you? Tell you that I touch myself and wish it were your fingers? Tell you that I come screaming your name? Tell you that I want to know you in every way? Or should I run as far away from you as possible and hope that time will heal this mess you've made?

I'm standing at your door. It's late. I want to knock. I want you to answer. I want to run. Hide. Scream. Beg. What do I do?

Enough courage gets me to knock twice and hold my breath. When you answer, barely dressed, eyes bloodshot, and tear streaks on your face, every thought leaves my body. All logic is gone. I simply lean forward and kiss your cheek.

Is it too much?

To my surprise, you lean into that touch. You ask me if I knew and I did. I tell you I'm sorry and you invite me in. Do I want tea? Yes. Dinner? I'd be delighted. Casual pleasantries to ease the nerves for the words I am about to utter.

"You're beautiful." The words slip off my lips so easily. You blush.

"Absolutely not. Look at me. I'm a mess."

I smile because even as a mess, I want you. I love you as a mess. I love your mess. I want to taste it.

"What will you do?" I ask not only out of curiosity, but I need to know. What do you think of such blasphemy?

"They are in love." You say, not even bitterly, but full of sorrow. "I will do nothing. Just mourn the loss of my own love. I highly doubt it was ever requited."

I want to tell you then. But something is in the way of those words. Some wall to be broken, whether it's yours or mine, I do not know.

"I'm here for you. If you wish it."

When your eyes lock onto mine it takes all of my effort to not look away or kiss you.

"I would like that."

A smile falls from your lips to mine.


End file.
